


An Unexpected Visit

by Bearslayer



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Mentions of Intrusive Thoughts, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of self-harm, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, gobblepot if you squint, very light hurt/comfort?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 00:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13752273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearslayer/pseuds/Bearslayer
Summary: Jim shows up in Oswald's manor, drunk and suicidal.





	An Unexpected Visit

**Author's Note:**

> This is the product of a prompt that specifically asks to explore the suicidal feelings touched on and then ignored in Gotham. As it's a topic I have a lot of personal experience with, I felt comfortable talking about it/portraying it. If you're sensitive to these kinds of things, please don't force yourself to read. While there is no death in this, it is discussed.

Oswald watched as the man paced back and forth, back and forth. In his hand was a bottle of whiskey, half-consumed. It was some bottom shelf rotgut, the type that smelled like gasoline and bore the promise of a day ruining hangover. It was the sort of booze you drank specifically to black out. Oswald doubted he even knew why he was there. James' strong brow furrowed, his head hanging as he paced, dress shoes clicking incessantly against the fine woodwork of the manor floors. He had been watching him for around fifteen minutes, since Jim first barreled his way in, offering no explanation as to his appearance.

“James.” Oswald said, voice soft.

No response.

“Jim!” Oswald snapped, louder.

Jim stopped in his tracks, looking at him. His hair was a nest on his head, unkempt and dull. His eyes were even more dull.

“Yeah.” Jim said.

“Why are you here?” Oswald asked, leaning back in his seat.

Jim barked out a laugh, pulling the bottle to his lips and taking a long, foul swig. He was already far-gone enough to not wince at the burn.

“Hell if I know. I don't have anywhere else to go, do I?” Jim grinned a mirthless grin.

“That isn't true. There's always your own apartment. I believe it's in the opposite direction.” Oswald said. There was sass in his voice, but no malice. He knew Jim wouldn't leave.

“Don't want to be there. Don't feel...” Jim took a deep breath, and shrugged.

“Don't feel what, Jim? Come, sit down, at least. And take your shoes off, you're scuffing my floors.” Oswald stood, moving to the man and taking him by the arm, insistent. Jim didn't fight, letting the smaller man pull him and place him into a chair. He leaned back into it, closing his eyes. Oswald attempted to take the whiskey away, but Jim jerked his hand back, splashing a bit on his chest.

“That's mine.” Jim growled.

“Very well. Take your shoes off.” Oswald insisted, tapping Jim's foot with his own.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jim mumbled, slowly beginning the process of removing his footwear.

“Now... You were saying you didn't want to be home, and were about to tell me why?” Oswald lied, curiosity piqued.

“Because I'm alone there.” Jim said.

“So you came here?” Oswald said, hoping he didn't drive there. He'd have to investigate the lawn later, just to make sure.

“Do you ever feel... Messed up?” Jim asked, looking up at him. One shoe was off, the other abandoned.

“Messed up? How?” Oswald asked.

“Messed up in the head. Like, you don't see... a point to anything you're doing. Like... I dunno. Like life isn't gonna go your way no matter what?” Jim muttered. Oswald took the whiskey away while Jim spoke, and found no resistance that time.

“I tend to force life to go my way...” Oswald sat the whiskey away from Jim's grasp.

“Oh. Nevermind then.” Jim sighed, shoving his fingers roughly through his hair.

“That doesn't mean I've never felt that way. I've been to Arkham twice, Jim.” Oswald reminded him dryly.

Jim winced when he said that, as if the idea hurt him. Oswald frowned, head tilting slightly as he regarded the man, trying to figure out what brought him there. He was drunk and distressed, clearly, but... he had never seen this side of him. He watched as the Jim looked into the fireplace. The fire flickered in his eyes, but there was little else to his expression. It was as if he was a ghost, all trace of the Jim that Oswald knew gone.

“Talk to me, James. Tell me what's on your mind.” Oswald urged, distressed by the way he was presenting.

“That's part of the problem. I don't even... know what's going on up there. Y'know? Too much stuff swimming around, it's all noise. I just want it to stop. I fuck up everything that I touch. I have no friends, I have no family. All I have is ghosts, y'know? Fuckin' – things that could have been. I can't even go to sleep without drugging myself lately.” Jim said. Despite the emotion implied by his words, his voice was flat, as if he had already screamed out everything inside. It was then that Oswald noticed that Jim's knuckles were bloodied and bruised.

Oswald didn't say anything just yet. Instead, he shuffled himself to the kitchen. There, he retrieved a bottle of cold water, and the first aid kit he kept beneath the sink. It only took a moment, and Jim was still staring into the fire when he returned. He took one of his hands, carefully beginning to clean it. Jim's face twitched a little as tiny fragments of drywall came loose at Oswald's work. He must have gotten into a row with his apartment walls.

Oswald recognized that anger. It was the anger that came when no other emotion was strong enough. The need to destroy the environment because the only other option is to destroy yourself in some spectacular way. It was as much an act of explosion as it was restraint, a way to expend all the pent up feelings boiling in the gut, a way to punish oneself. It was modern self-flagellation. He had done the same many times, destroying entire rooms, hurting himself in the process.

“I can sympathize, you know. I've felt that way so many times.” Oswald said gently, glancing up at Jim's face.

“How... how do you deal with it? I don't know what to do anymore. Nothing I do is enough, and I always... destroy someone or something I love. I can have the best intentions and just... fuck everything up worse for it.” Jim said, looking to him. Oswald shook his head.

“I keep busy. I drink. I wait for it to pass.” Oswald told him honestly as he bandaged his hand.

“Shit. Can't I just get on meds or something?” Jim chuckled grimly.

“It's an option, but then you open yourself up to the scrutiny of a psychiatrist. I'm personally not a fan. I've learned my own methods over the years... It might just be a matter of finding your own.” Oswald said, sighing a little.

“I don't think I could deal with a shrink getting in my head. I just...” Jim brought the bandaged hand up, rubbing at his eyes. They were beginning to tear up. “I'm so tired of being the reason people around me suffer. I just – sometimes I think about tossing myself in front of a car, off a building. Crap like that. Only thing that keeps me from doing it is knowing someone would find me and it'd probably fuck them up for life. And that'd be one more person I messed up.”

“Any reason for living is a good one.” Oswald said. His heart was heavy, the sight of the tears in Jim's eyes tightening his chest. Even heroes had darkness that they hid. Jim had never been so forthright with his emotions, especially not to Oswald. He mentally thanked the cheap whiskey that had led Jim there.

“And sometimes I think, if I can't do that, maybe I can just... disappear. You know? Go out into the woods or something. Go where no one's gonna find me. And then I could just sh--” Jim said, head shaking slowly as he envisioned his own death. Oswald placed a finger on his lips.

“No. People would look for you. I would look for you.” Oswald admitted.

“Don't know why.” Jim mumbled. “They'd forget eventually, though.”

“I don't think that's true. As much as I'd want to, I don't think I could. I don't think the Wayne boy could. Or Harvey.” Oswald started. “And I know that it's painful. Believe me, I've been privy to many of life's pains, as you know. But there's always a reason to keep going.”

“... Why do you keep going? What's your reason?” Jim asked, searching for his own answer in Oswald's eyes.

“... Spite, mostly.” Oswald said, shrugging a shoulder.

Jim couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head at the man.

“Spite?” He said, taking the water from him and taking a long drink.

“I have a lot of people to prove wrong, still. If I let myself give in to those dark urges, all those who ever doubted me would be right. And I can't have that.” Oswald smiled, relieved to see him laugh.

“God, I've never heard you say something more Oswald than that.” Jim muttered.

“You'll find your reasons, Jim. I'm sure you already have them, otherwise you might not be here.” Oswald said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It's just a matter of figuring out what they are.”

“I guess. Sometimes it's just... hard. Like a weight on my chest. It just makes me so... tired.” Jim said, sighing a little.

“I know the feeling, Jim. Better than most, probably. But I'm here for you, even if you decide to scorn me in the morning. And I'll listen until it doesn't feel so heavy, at least for the night.”

And if only for the night, Oswald and Jim were no longer enemies. They were just two men bonded through pains so deep that none but the other might think to understand.

 


End file.
